Adam Tamashasky

AUTUMN SESTINA

In the minutes before bedtime, evening’s gathering
the last scraps of light to her orange
sky. My daughter runs to another tree and leaves
the last one to dim. We always end
our days here on this corner lot lost
behind a phalanx of trees, so it’s here shadows first fall.

Which is not to say this foreshadows her first fall,
even if in the dusk the portents are gathering.
I’m striving to be a parent on whom nothing is lost,
not even the way the dying sun fades her face to orange,
not even my desire to tell that there’s an end
for all of us as final as for her leaves

that dissolve to crackles beneath her as she leaves
for another tree. Yes, even that tree has a fall
in store, daughter. And that’s okaythat we end.
But now’s for laughing, for the smell of autumn grass, for gathering
the fallen tears of the trees in handfuls of orange
to see if holding on enough keeps things from getting lost.

You’ll be lost.
This leaves
me standing in orange
in the fall
gathering
for an end

that should follow my own end.
Remember, when mine comes, you’re not lost,
though, from time to time, in a gathering
dark you may hear a scuff of leaves
and turn, expecting the fall
to cast back your father in orange

light, orange such as you remember orange
from a childhood you see now doesn’t end,
the way that falling leaves always fall
in a memory.
— I’m sorry. I’m lost.
Carrying on this way, as I do, leaves
me overlooking the dark’s been gathering.

Holly Karapetkova

“When the kitchen breakfast is over, and the cook has put all things in their proper places, the mistress should go in to give her orders… The mistress must tax her own memory with all this: we have no right to expect slaves or hired servants to be more attentive to our interest than we ourselves are.”
-Mary Randolph, Virginia Housewife;Or, Methodical Cook, 1828

With one hand I serve teacakes on
the blue India china,
with the other I wipe mosquitoes
sweating from my neck.

With one voice I order French
tureens from Calder’s & Co.,
with another I order the cook
not to burn the gravy.

The hush of what is beneath the
damask tablecloth
at night grows knives.

With one mouth I smile at
the good doctor with the other I grit
my teeth watching dark eyes
always watching me.

They know what moves in shadows
refuse to polish the silver
for love of tarnish. They know
the other names for everything names
they flash like knives
when no one is around looking.

Alejandro Pérez

WORDS OF MY FATHER/
PALABRAS DE MI PADRE

Always say hello, even if the others do not say hello back.
We are Latinos, and Latinos always say hello.

When you shake a hand, shake it firmly, and look a person in the eyes. Never look away. Character goes a long way in life. And we aren’t born with character. We build it.
Character is a house of hay that becomes sturdy with time.

Never try to eat a mango without getting your hands dirty. Let the juice ooze onto your fingers, let your fingers become sticky. When you’re finished eating it, you can wash your hands. Remember, any mess, no matter how big, can always be cleaned up.

When you play soccer, always be the best player on the field. And be a little selfish. You pass the ball too much to your teammates, and assists, they don’t get you anywhere in life. People will only remember you if you score all the goals.

Know when a dream is worth chasing forever and when it should be abandoned to go off in pursuit of another.
The same goes for women. When you love a woman, if your heart begs to see her whenever she is gone, never let her go.
If you’re only half sure of your love, then you should walk away.

If you ever have a problem, come to me and ask me for advice. But most likely, I won’t give you an answer. I’ll just sit down beside you and we’ll both close our eyes and pray to God for guidance because two prayers are better than one.

For anything good in life, you must wait. You cannot make guacamole with a green avocado because it will taste bitter.
You must wait for the avocado to ripen and turn black.

You need to remember all these things, mi’jo. You need to remember all these things. But the most important thing you should remember is that you are Latino. That means you should always say hello, even if the others do not say hello back,
because we are Latinos, and Latinos always say hello.

With humble deference to the great literature of the ages, this collection of poems, short stories, and creative nonfiction is proof that all stories have not already been told. Here, each writer gives us an original, new voice. The creative pen endures. Welcome to the eleventh annual Delmarva Review, a literary journal publishing exceptional new writing.

Our editors selected the work of 45 authors that stood out from thousands of submissions. Enclosed are 57 poems, 10 short stories, 11 nonfiction and four micro nonfiction selections. We also reviewed five recent books by regional writers. In all, the authors come from 19 states and two other countries.

A common theme emerged from this year’s writing: the discovery or realization of individuality. Often during difficult times, adversity leaves its impression on one’s identity; it shapes us. It can also be celebrated. Individuality and creativity are inseparable.

Volume 11 is available in print and digital editions worldwide from major online booksellers as well as regional libraries and bookstores on the Delmarva Peninsula.

Volume 10, celebrating the tenth anniversary of Delmarva Review, touches on the themes of change and hope, among many others. It is a special issue for those who worked on it, a milestone of our dedication to publishing the finest in literary arts. The issue contains the work of 40 authors from 18 states.

The issue also features the poet, Gibbons Ruark, interviewed by poetry editor Anne Colwell. We’re pleased to share two of Ruark’s poems from his wonderful collection The Road to Ballyvaughan.

Volume 10 is available in print and digital editions worldwide from major online booksellers as well as regional libraries and bookstores on the Delmarva Peninsula.

Volume 9 contains the poetry and prose of thirty-six authors from 11 states. We encourage the work of authors in the greater Chesapeake region, and we welcome all writers, regardless of residence. The writing in this edition includes: forty-seven poems, eight short stories, and 10 essays and memoirs. We also review five recent books by regional authors.

In recognition of William Shakespeare's 400th birthday, we are featuring the work of Shakespearean actor and poet James Keegan, from Milton, Delaware, in this issue.

Volume 9 is available in print and digital editions worldwide from major online booksellers as well as regional libraries and bookstores on the Delmarva Peninsula.